


love is not, it must be grown

by unicyclehippo



Series: Blue Girls Have The Most Fun [46]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:33:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25665988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unicyclehippo/pseuds/unicyclehippo
Summary: Prompt: Beau trying to learn to bake to make Jester a special pastry (something cute and Valentines related) OR sad angsty valentines related stuff
Relationships: Jester Lavorre/Beauregard Lionett
Series: Blue Girls Have The Most Fun [46]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1824289
Comments: 3
Kudos: 88





	love is not, it must be grown

Kamordah was a fertile place only in selected areas, either luck or some witch-fortune designating those rare spaces. Even so, on the day of Wild's Grandeur, before the evening dance and feast, young lovers would spend the day together in rest and exchange their gifts, enjoying the world they they are a part of. Those harbouring a secret love would plant a seedling on the day—if it grew, it meant hope. It meant there was a chance for a future. If it didn't, well. Kamordah has never been fertile. 

It's an old tradition, and one Beau has never put much stock in. Even so, as Dualahei moves swiftly toward its close, Beau finds herself standing in an orchard at the edge of the Gallimaufry. There is an enormous hedge maze to her left, tall and wild and all a tangle of dark green-and-purple thorns and leaves. And to her right, the neat lines of the orchard stretching out.

Beau stands at the intersection. Left? Or right. 

There is a shift on the ground behind her; before Beau can turn, a bright, rock-scratch voice from high over her shoulder speaks out. 

'What'ss thiss? A _human_?'

Beau spins, shifts so her stance is steady. Eye level with the scaled shoulder of this creature, Beau takes a hurried step back, lifts her eyes to those of this individual. Dragonborn, Beau thinks, but quickly dismisses it. Lizardfolk, more likely.

Stood at easily seven feet tall, perhaps a little shorter but with a tall, spined frill that adds a few inches to their heigh, they are far more slender than the few dragonborn Beau has encountered. Not small by any means, though—broad, sloping shoulders fall into long limbs; a long, solid-looking tail drags to the ground behind them. And all over, a heavy scaled hide. Their head is square on top of their neck and unlike a dragonborn's smooth, uniform scales, this one's scales are, well, bumpy. They grow together in odd patterns, forming ridges and whorls. All in all, a strange and capable looking individual.

Beau might be shorter, smaller, and thin-skinned comparatively—but she's more than capable. 

Shoving past the surprise, Beau juts her chin up. 'Yeah, I'm human. What the hell are you—a toad?'

The lizardfolk fixes her with a clouded green eye before cracking a wide smile. Toothy. Sharp. Their laughter hisses up from a heavy gut. 'Thiss one hass been called worsse,' they tell her, chuckling. 'Thiss one is called Shariss.'

The lizardfolk—Shariss—extends an enormous clawed hand toward her. Beau takes it. The grip is firm, not rough. The hand is dirty. Not terribly so, not filthy. A dusting of soil. Light, dry. Top-soil. 

'Beau.'

Their frill lifts in what Beau assumes is acknowledgment.

‘What bringss Beau to thiss garden? Thiss one iss - how would you call it? Custodian.’ Shariss leans brightly into the word, their smile growing slightly when they see Beau hear the pun and grimace. ‘Not amusing?’

‘It was fine.’

Shariss hisses their laugh again. They shift the tool they carry—a spade-type implement—from one shoulder to the other, and wave a hand toward a small hut that sits between the hedge-maze, from which Shariss must have emerged, and the orchard.

‘Tell me what you wish from thiss one,’ Shariss orders. ‘Be quick. Thiss one hass work to do.’

Beau falls into step beside the stranger. Stares down at the grass—pale, not a vibrant green, but alive nonetheless. It crunches slightly underfoot. Grass isn't supposed to crunch. The sound echoes in her ears, makes her think of cracked earth and heat-baked grass and stone, makes her think of home. It's probably why Wild's Grandeur had occurred to her, something she hasn't thought of in years. 

'Time iss wasting,’ Shariss says, not unkindly. They reach the hut. Shariss steps in, ducking their head low beneath the frame. Tools chatter as Shariss replaces the spade and selects something else. With the lizardfolk sequestered within, Beau finally says to the unpainted stone wall,

‘Do you know what Wild’s Grandeur is?’

'All the wild is grand,’ Shariss agrees.

‘No, no, it’s like a holiday in the Em—oh fuck you, dude,’ she cuts herself off when Shariss laughs from within. ‘You can just say yes.’

‘Beau ssquawks. It iss funny.’

‘Fuck you,’ she says again, with less heat. ‘Look, there’s this thing that happens during the holiday and I just need a seed or a sapling or whatever.’

Silence meets her request. Beau shifts her weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other and then starts when Shariss’s long face emerges slowly from the dark of the huts interior, eyes fixed on Beau. Their eyes, slitted, intent, are gleaming with interest, which Beau dislikes on principle.

The toothy smile grows, which had seemed impossible before, wider and toothier.

‘Beau is in love.’

‘What? No!’

‘You wish to plant a seedling,’ Shariss says. ‘To see love nurtured.’

‘No!’

‘Thiss one knowss the day. Thiss one thinkss it is ssweet. Beau does not have to be embarassed. Tell thiss one - what iss thiss one wishing? The gift of fruit, a large family?’

'Kill me.’

‘A mighty ironwood, love unbreakable?’

‘This is the worst day of my life,’ Beau mutters, covering her face. ‘Look, do you have a fucking sapling or not?’

Shariss hisses their laugh. Squeezes the bulk of their body from the hut—leaving the tools behind—and hurries surprisingly quickly deeper into the orchard.

‘This one has the perfect one,’ Shariss calls. Beau groans, torn between running away and...running to catch up. After a second, she makes her choice; putting on a burst of speed, it takes a few bare moments to close the distance with the long-legged lizard. Shariss smiles sharply down at her when she does.

'Sso. This one is friend of our queen, yes?’

‘How did you—‘

‘A human in Rossohna. Not common.’

‘Okay, that's fair.’

‘This one hears the gossip, even if not many folk wander close to the whisper gardens,’ Shariss continues. ‘Eyes like cloudbreak, they say.’

Beau frowns. ‘Cloud break... The sky?’

‘Yess. The ssky,’ Shariss agrees dreamily. ‘Sso pretty. It hass been _sso_ long.’ Their hissing grows stronger as Shariss lingers over the words, so fondly spoken. 'Sso warm, sso pretty.'

Beau shrugs away her embarrassment, glares down at the path again. ‘So what’s this plant, then?’

‘This one has ssunlight, yess? A great green tree.’

‘Yeah. Our magic users put some light spells to help grow the garden.’

Shariss sighs happily. ‘Sstunning.’

They walk further. The trees of the orchard change, bearing different fruits. Some are sequestered in glass domes. Others grow in different grounds, the earth turning muddy beneath their boots, water washing slow and steady from irrigation pipes Beau can see poking up from the earthern path at regular intervals. 

'Thiss one Beau iss in love with...'

'I'm either gonna beg you to stop or _make_ you stop,'

'Thiss one will ask until you make up your mind,' Shariss tells her cheerfully. 'That one iss your betrothed?'

'No.'

'Your bonded?'

'No.'

'Ah,' Shariss says, sounding way too pleased with whatever they've deduced. 'A ssecret love.'

'I've decided,' Beau snaps. 'I'm gonna make you stop.'

Shariss laughs, a stop-and-start hissing. Their tail drags winding furrow in the earth behind them. 'As you ssay.'

Soon, easily and happily ignoring Beau’s question again of what this sapling is, they arrive deeper in the orchard where a number of small trees and saplings sit waiting to be planted in hessian bags, heavy with dark dirt and the pungent scent of manure. Fertilizer, Beau assumes. Hopes.

‘Here,’ Shariss waves a hand. ‘Take whichever you wish.’

‘What are they?’ Beau asks again, curious.

The larger ones, similar enough to be the same as the seedlings, are not quite like any tree she’s ever seen—the bark is silver-grey with hints of blue here and there, and the leaves long and tapered. She crumples one of the leaves between two fingers and the scent of the broken leaf bursts in her nose, curiously familiar—sharp and clean.

‘For health. For long life, and strength, protection. All good ssigns.’

Beau nods slowly. She steps toward the seedlings, searches for one that she will be able to carry and that looks healthy. To her uneducated eyes anyway.

‘How much?’

Shariss shakes their head. The frill flares along with their pleased smile. ‘Sseedlings wish to be planted. Thiss one iss pleased to have one planted in the ssunlight.'

'That's too much -'

'It iss a tree. It wantss to be planted.' Shariss won't be dissauded, and the kindness feels good, even if it feels too much. Beau accepts, takes their help in packing up the sapling, takes a flood of information in how to care for the sapling. 'Beau,' Shariss calls after her when finally she leaves. 'Besst of luck with your love.'

* * *

Beau’s arms are burning by the time she returns to the Xhorhaus. The seedling hadn’t been even the largest of the lot and even so, over the course of the walk, the weight of it has forced her to stop a few times and shake out her hands, twist her back in an attempt to loosen the bunching muscles.

And she hasn’t even made it up the stairs to the tower yet, she realises in some despair.

Kicking open the front door, she hasn’t made it more than halfway through the foyer before Jester calls cheerfully down from the floor above.

‘We’re super powerful so you better not be a thief!’

Beau grunts a laugh. ‘Not a thief.’

A pause. Then, ‘Be- _au_! What do you have? Is that a plant? Oh _no_ ,’ she gasps, and then Beau is glad she had paused at the base of the staircase because Jester is flying down it and staring at her with big, wide eyes, gripping her shoulders. ‘You didn’t! Caduceus didn’t take you as well!’

‘Huh?’

‘If you’re going to be _anyone’s_ paladin it can’t be the Wildmother too, Beau, the Traveller is _so_ cool and he loves you _so_ much and - and the Wildmother already has two worshippers, it’s not _fair_ ,’

‘What the fuck are you talkin’ about?’ Beau steps up. Hates herself for picking a fucking seedling instead of like. Sunflower seeds. A picture of a flower. For doing this at all.

Jester blinks big eyes from the sapling to her and back again before asking, ‘You’re not worshipping the Wildmother?’

Beau has no energy to do anything but breathe and climb the steps. Even so, she cuts a confused frown sideways at Jester. ‘What? No?’

Jester’s crumpled expression brightens instantly, as though she had cast light inside of herself and it shines from her eyes, from her beaming smile. ‘Oh good! Not that she’s not super cool and stuff but—wait. Why do you have a tree then?’

‘It’s—fuck—‘s a sapling.’

‘A sapling, then,’ Jester says, annoyingly agreeable, and curious, and altogether too clever. ‘Oh my gosh, Beau, is this what I think it is?’

‘Doubt it.’

‘Is it a Grandeur gift?’ Jester squeals, tail twisting around her own wrist as she claps her hands and hurries to the top of the stairs to clap excitedly. She waits there for Beau to join her, puffing. ‘Ooh, Be-au, who is it for? Are you in _love_?’ she teases.

There’s a moment where Beau thinks about telling her. There’s another moment Beau spends searching Jester’s face for any sign that she is jealous or, or yearning or something like that. Anything that might say she thinks or hopes that Beau likes _her_. But Beau finds nothing there and so she grips the rough sack harder, hitches it higher in her grip, and continues slowly up to the next level of the stairs.

‘It’s just an old tradition,’ she tells her, and it’s not much of a lie. ‘We used to plant one so the estate would flourish. Thought it might be nice for the house.’

‘Oh. I thought it was for people.’

‘Can be. Doesn’t have to be.' It's true, Beau tells herself. Mostly.

‘Oh.’ Jester’s face falls. ‘That’s boring.’

Beau huffs a laugh. Can’t help but look fondly over to her friend. ‘I guess.’

Jester stays with her a little longer but it’s clear that she has lost interest since it doesn’t, apparently, have anything to do with a steamy secret romance. Beau is glad of it because there’s only so long she can keep her own expression clear of the way her stomach burns with acid that has started to climb up her throat. Jester doesn’t like her and never will. The plant is useless. But if it grows, she can hope. And if it dies, she’ll know for sure.


End file.
